


My Favorite Pets

by Tiny Team Free Will (emmynine)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Macrophilia, Microphilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shrinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmynine/pseuds/Tiny%20Team%20Free%20Will
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Godstiel decides to take a more literal approach to calling Dean his favorite pet. To teach him his place, he shrinks Dean down to a sparse few inches tall, and intends to use him in any way that pleases him. Dean has to learn to adapt if he wants a chance at ever getting Cas back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Before you turned and bit me.”

Dean’s ears are ringing. It’s all surreal, all of it, ever since he walked through that door. He’s seen his best friend as an angel and as a human, and he knows one thing for an absolute fact: this is not Cas. This person standing before him is something twisted, something broken, something inherently possessed and tainted. He doesn’t know how much of Cas is left in there, how scrambled his carton is, he just knows it’s too far. It comes crushing in, the weight of the fact that Cas is really and truly gone. 

Beside him stands his brother, shaking and lost, confused, eyes searching between the two of them as though looking for answers. Dean can’t give them. He levels his eyes back with the soulless blue ones across the tile, and it’s like oxygen is sucked from the atmosphere. Like lightening could strike, like facing down a cobra, tempered by the steady thudding of his heart. 

“If you’re gonna kill us, just _do it_ already.” He manages to bite out, throat thick and strung tight. It wavers, but it’s strong enough. Laced with conviction that he really feels. He’s never been a fan of this back and forth pre-game bullshit. He doesn’t have the patience for it.

“Shut up, Dean.” Bobby mutters darkly from somewhere over his left shoulder, tension in every line of his body, eyes wide beyond the brim of his cap. “You’re not doin’ us any favors.”

Dean doesn’t respond, because he really _means it_. He’d rather die than stare this thing in the face for much longer. It’s like every time anything’s ever taken over someone he gives a shit about. It’s like that demon in his father, it’s like Eve as his mother, like Sam under the poison of demon blood or incubus venom. It makes his lip curl in disgust and righteous fury. 

Castiel- no- _God_ stiel flicks his gaze calmly to Bobby for a handful of seconds, lips still calmly angled upward. Bobby ducks his cap awkwardly, and those eyes return to Dean. “I have no intention of killing you, Dean. As usual, your ability to listen is impeded only by your stubborn refusal to see the facts.”

“Oh yeah? And what’re _the facts_ ,” he echoes, sarcastically lilting voice still hedged with fear. 

“The fact is that you’re mine, now. To do with as I please. You have always been my pet, and now I’m going to teach you your place.” Castiel responds, voice airy as he ambles closer, eyes flickering in disinterest, taking in the table, the angel sword on its surface, the way Sam doubles over suddenly in pain, the trace of blood on the wall. Dean starts at the sound, but his feet refuse to move. It’s like they’re sealed to the floor, uncooperative, bound by a thousand pound weight.

“ _Sam_ \- what are you doing to him, you son of a bitch?! _Sammy!_ ”

Sam groans, grits out a gasp, jerks his head up so tight the tension shows in the muscles and tendons of his neck. “ _Dean-_ “

“I’m not doing anything. Sam’s wall is broken. That he even arrived here without collapsing is a miracle. But Sam is no longer my concern-“

“Sam’s your _friend_. You’d remember that if your goddamn brain wasn’t broken-“

“ _Enough_.” Castiel raises a hand. The sound of wind rushes through the room, and within a blink, both Sam and Bobby are gone. Dean’s feet unstick from the floor, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“ _What in the hell did you do with them?!_ ” He demands, sharp and barking, eyes blazing. Even as he says it, though, something shifts. Something starts to ache, to burn, bile rising at the back of his throat. His muscles tense as something magical, something _electric_ races through his veins.

“I removed them. Bobby will tend to Sam. His fate is his own now, and it’s no longer any of your concern. From this point forward, you’ll have one thought and one thought only- pleasing your God. I’ve catered to your wants for years, Dean. It’s time you cater to mine.” Castiel’s voice pierces not only his ears but his mind, ringing through his skull as the world begins to tilt. 

“What-“ His voice cuts off as he stumbles, takes a knee. A hand presses into the cold tile, and his clothes begin to sag against his body. “What- the hell is this-“ 

It’s hard to make his throat work, it’s hard to rasp out anything other than the tempered breathing and rasping of pain. Beneath his hand, his vision wavers. The lines in the tile, the grout, begins to stretch. His fingertips no longer span the length of two or three, they barely manage to cover the area of _one_. He tears his head up to look at Castiel.

Castiel is growing. His neck cranes past inches of black and feet of tan, and Cas towers over him, expanding in every direction, slowly but surely becoming larger than life, never ceasing in his patient smile. He grows from six feet to eight to ten to fifteen- no, that isn’t right. The tile, the tables, they’re getting further away- it’s not that Castiel is growing, it’s that he’s _shrinking_. Soaring down, down, down, swimming in heavy denim that weighs on him, the size of a toddler, now smaller, now smaller, and god he’s going to be sick.

When he finally stops, the world goes black for a moment. His mind swims, dizzy and confused, something heavy and rough pressing down on him. He jerks, fights to breath, struggles to pull himself into the light. 

The world is alien. It stretches on for miles, black fabric the size of a room, then shining white tile, then he sees it. Almost as tall as he is, something shining and black and unbelievable. It’s disorienting in it’s size, almost comical, it’s the surface of a shining dress shoe before him. Without warning, it lifts. It’s almost mind blowing, the way it lifts so many hundred feet in the air. Soars for miles _toward him_. It’s sheer instinct that causes Dean to shrink back, to scrabble over the surface of the clothes backward, stumbling over himself. The fabric falls away beneath him and his ass hits cold tile. The shoe lowers, the size of a car, a bus maybe, shaking the ground, the noise far too loud, and it’s less than a foot to his left. Movement to his right catches his eye, and another shoe plants itself less than a foot to his right.

Silence.

 

His eyes travel up dark fabric, up, up, up, up a pants leg to an enormous crotch, up a chest, broad shoulders, all towering over him the size of the Chysler building. He can just make out Cas’s face, stilted and skewed from this angel, righteous and huge, staring down at him dispassionately. Like he’s gum on the floor that happened to catch his eye. Dean freezes. The immensity of him… the size his true form must be.

“To truly understand your station-“ Cas’s lips move and his voice is almost deafening. It reverberates around him, shaking through his chest, tearing through his mind, his true voice if it managed to speak English, managed not to shatter his eardrums, no, just the rough human gravel times a thousand. “-I’ve decided to forcibly remind you of our differences. This is what you are compared to me- small. Insignificant. An instrument to my idle amusement. You will be obedient…”

A shoe shifts, whizzes overhead with speed, and before Dean can run, presses down on him. It’s unyielding leather, the tread of it humungous, shoving him down until his back pops, until his body starts to bruise, presumably with barely any weight shifted into that foot at all. It would take no effort on Castiel’s part to crush him, none whatsoever. “Because you won’t like the consequences otherwise.”

Seconds tick by, but that foot doesn’t move. The tension rises in him, and he raises his arms to push, to shove. All of his weight and strength accomplish nothing, all of his squirming gets him nowhere, and still the shoe remains. It dawns on him, then, just what Castiel is doing. He’s making Dean understand how well and truly helpless he is. How little his resistance will do. No matter how hard or long he fights, nothing could possibly shift the crushing weight above him. His lips part. His arms stop pushing.

Only then does the shoe lift. 

He gasps into the air, into the light, oxygen flooding his lungs again as his mind struggles to process it all.

 

Well. 

He is _so definitely screwed_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes face to face with his situation, and gets introduced to his new residence.

 

Try as he might, Dean can’t seem to wrap his mind around the situation. Cas has gone off the rails, completely and utterly. That in and of itself is old news, though, compared to what’s happening right now. Beneath him, cold tile- one single cold tile- slowly sucks the heat away from his naked body. He’s sprawled, elbows pressing uncomfortably onto the floor, head thrown back so he can take in the magnitude of who’s above him. 

Fabric rustles so loudly, it fills his ears. Enormous knees bend, spread for what seems like miles in either direction as Cas lowers himself into a squat. Dress pants form a V that hovers just over Dean’s eyes, until a billboard sized face- no- larger than that, it must be- drops into view. It gives him a bizarre sort of vertigo, something that big moving that much directly above him. He can’t take it all in, not as disoriented as he is, and much too quickly for him to react, an enormous hand lowers itself. 

The fingers are thick and long, the middle perhaps a few centimeters taller than he is. It’s the size of a car at least, and they seize him without effort. Warm and leathery skin wraps around him tightly, too tightly, and suddenly he’s _moving_. Gravity shoots away and fear fills his stomach in a way it only does when he’s confronted with _flying_. When he’s in an airplane that’s taking off, shooting him back against the fleshy pad of finger-made wall behind him, flattening him down as they both go up, up, up, soaring miles toward the sky. When it finally stops, he realizes his arms wrapped around Castiel’s thumb without his consent. Before he can help himself, his eyes drop to the floor and his stomach sinks like a stone. Several dozen stores below, the tile stares up at him. A fall from this height, he’d be dead in a goddamn second. 

A flash of color brings his eyes forward again, and there’s Castiel’s face, obstructing the entirety of the space before him like nothing else exists. Nothing else could possibly fit. It takes his eyes a full second to traverse the expanse of it, chapped lips and angular jaws, up a pointed nose to wide, laser-focused blue eyes. He feels too goddamn small to see, though he knows that isn’t the case, and he stares back as lips twitch upward into something pleased and smug. “I think this is far more suited to your stature, Dean. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to your uses at that size.”

“You change me back right now, you perverted son of a bitch, and get your hands off my junk-“ The fire ignites in him again as soon as the words stop, Castiel’s low and rumbling tone echoing around him like the voice of God. He starts to squirm, pressing and kicking against the flesh around him. It tightens suddenly, constricting as Castiel closes his fist. A finger against his ribs presses the breath out of him easily and he seizes, pounding his fists against it.

“Let me make this perfectly clear. You do as I would have you do, or I deem your existence not worth the trouble and I end you. As long as you are of use to me, as long as you… worship me to the extent that I deem enough, you may continue to live.” He seems to consider his own words as he speaks them, eyes trailing along Dean’s naked body. His hand unfolds slowly, revealing every inch of exposed flesh. Dean, robbed of his security and faced suddenly with the height that drops off into nothing at every edge of his platform, scoots back on that palm, hands gripping for leverage. 

“How in the fuck am I supposed to do that like _this_?” He demands incredulously, shifting to cover his waist to preserve any hint of modesty. Godstiel’s smile widens, and another finger enters his vision. The index finger of Castiel’s free hand presses in, touches his chest and shoves him flat against his massive palm. Dean squirms in protest, shoving futily at the pad of his finger. If Castiel notices his strength even slightly, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His finger trails over Dean’s small body, tracing pecks, swirling a thoughtful circle, then trails down his belly along his waistline. 

“Your purpose will be one you’re most certainly accustomed to. Worship of the flesh.” The finger goes lower, presses against Dean’s flaccid cock, prods gently at the tender flesh. 

“WOAH right now you son of a bitch, you can’t do that - !” He kicks, squirms, legs struggling to close, to get away, to _anything_. Castiel’s grip on him is firm, though, and his steady exploration goes uninterrupted as he circles and nudges Dean’s cock, nudges it upward. It moves on, though, trailing over thighs and legs and back up again. 

“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I want, Dean. I’m God, and there is nothing I can’t have. Including you.” His eyes darken slowly, the pupil dilating, the blue dipping to something nearly black. “You should be proud. It was your idea that I experience sex. Now, I have you to fulfill that purpose while I focus on mending your broken world.” His finger trails up again, rubs gently at Dean’s cock. For once in his life, Dean’s fucking speechless. This has to be some kind of fucking joke, it has to be, but the warm skin beneath him says otherwise. The ridges of fingerprint, the warm tip of it nudging relentless friction against his dick says otherwise. The heat of it as it betrays him and begins to swell? Sure as hell says otherwise.

“I’m going to put you somewhere safe. I suggest you get used to it, it’s where you’ll be spending the majority of your time. You may as well get acquainted.” Castiel’s hand closes around him again and suddenly he’s _moving_ , soaring, being shifted downward, lowered. 

But not to the floor. 

“Acquainted with _who?_ ” He manages to yell, hands gripping the finger around his chest. Castiel doesn’t answer. Instead, another massive hand flies before him, and his eyes drop. A dozen feet below, Castiel tugs open the waistband of his dress pants. “…Oh, hell no.”

The hand around him opens.

He drops into the dark. 

His body hits fabric, _hard_ , and suddenly things shift. He rolls down the expanse of dark cotton and lands against something warm and soft, something distinctly fuzzy. His eyes adjust to the dark just as the light starts to disappear, and he has just enough time to process the fact that he’s laying snugly against Castiel’s right ball before the light disappears entirely and he’s sandwiched against cotton.

The pressure is heavy, dozens of pounds of cotton nudging him against squishy and tender flesh. It’s clean, no doubt due to the meticulous mojo preserving Jimmy Novak’s body, but there’s no goddamn two ways about it. He’s up close and personal with Castiel’s junk.

In the outside world, Castiel’s finger dips to trace the heavy weight of his sack, pressing and feeling for Dean’s small form. Inside, it’s much less gentle. He’s pressed and nudged, shoved mouth first into sagging and wrinkling skin, grunting and groaning in effort as he struggles to orientate himself. Finally, blessedly, the prodding stops and things go still again.

“I expect you understand what you’re meant to do. I’ll give you some time to come to terms with it, but you should get started _soon_ Dean. Or else. For now, we’ve got work to do.”

Fabric rustles.

The world begins to shift left, then right, and Castiel’s testicles bounce gently, lifting off of him and then pressing down again in a steady rhythm. For the God, he’s merely walking. For Dean, the entire world is hot and pulsing and shifting, and his first fucking priority is to get out from beneath that hot, sagging weight plastering him to the fabric of Castiel’s boxers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godstiel tries Dean out for the first time.

Hauling himself out from beneath the sagging weight of Cas’s balls is one of the most difficult things he’s ever done. The rhythmic bouncing doesn’t stop, a press, release, press, release against his chest as they sway to the beat. Soon, though, Dean learns to navigate it. He grips at handholds in the skin and tugs with every release, inching his way out a little at a time. He learns, through trial and error, that climbing up the center space between them yields more results than on the sack itself. The fact that he even has to get this familiar with another person’s genitals, though, is still a fucking mind blowing concept. He just can’t fathom it, and he can’t stop a steady stream of curse words from rolling out of his mouth.  
Finally, after what must be an hour of work, he pulls himself free and can breathe.

All that work is undone by a single hitch of Cas’s leg. The fabric and the flesh around him jerks sharply, dislodging him and knocking him back down beneath the pressing weight. 

“You son of a bitch!” he calls, pounding his fists into the weight above him. He’s certain, absolutely certain that Castiel did it on purpose- and he’s right. Dean had been crawling up a particularly sensitive strip of skin, and it was of no consequence that he undid Dean’s hard work. He simply wished to feel it again, and he wasn’t disappointed. Dean began to crawl and squirm his way out of Godstiel’s sac, and he hums in approval as he continues to walk, cock twitching to life. In his own mind, he determines that Dean should have to learn to become accustomed to Castiel’s desires, not the other way around. Developing a mastery on navigating the space he’s allotted is one of the first things he should- quite literally- grasp.

As arousal begins to flood the man within whom Dean is trapped, his landscape begins to change. Balls tighten and draw in, pulling Dean with them, trapping him momentarily between their heaving weight. He struggles for breath, fights the flesh around him, and pulls himself out again. He clings to the skin, panting and heaving, body already sweating due to heat and exertion. He takes a long moment to catch his breath, face pressed skin.

After he’s up to it again and his eyes have adjusted, he takes the time to look around his confined space. Just above him hangs Castiel’s cock, not quite hard but certainly not entirely flaccid either. Behind him is the sloping fabric of his boxers, and way, way up creating a makeshift ceiling is the waistband of Castiel’s briefs, firmly closed and barring exit. On either side are enormous thighs, spattered with a sparse thicket of hair. Nothing else. This is all, and given how tightly those boxers grip thighs, there doesn’t seem to be any escape. No running, no hiding, no exit strategy- just playing ball literally with this fucking asshole’s command until an opportunity presents itself.

God fucking damn it. 

Evidently, he’s been still entirely too long. Out of nowhere, an immense pressure pushes against the cotton and rubs him face first into the flesh to which he’d been clinging. It’s a grip, a squeeze, and a low voice fills his ears, rumbling from out of the fabric and inside his head all at once. “You have a job to do. Do it. I won’t ask again.”

The pressure leaves as quickly as it had come, and once again Dean’s panting for breathing, gripping tightly to keep from falling back down to Point A and trying to determine if his ribs are broken. Thankfully, they aren’t.

God, he doesn’t wanna go through that again. Which means…

His head tilts up, and the head of Cas’s cock stares down at him. How in the hell is he supposed to do… that? Carefully, he climbs, glancing down every once and a while at the dark pit beneath him. At the very top of the fleshy, bouncing mounds, he can reach out with one hand and stroke it along the bulbous head. His lips pull back in distaste, but evidently the small sensation is enough to buy him time, because Castiel doesn’t stop him or instruct him further. He rubs, traces a slit as big around as his waist, and can only be thankful that at least his prison is freakin’ clean.

Blood rushes southward suddenly and in a hurry. Castiel’s a virgin, a thousand years of sexual repression means even the slightest stimulation’s going to hit him hard, and he stops still in the street to let out a breath and close his eyes. It’s gentle, that feeling he’s feeling, like a teasing fingertip. The knowledge of who’s causing it, though, that’s what really lights the fire in him. He has to adjust the cotton of his boxers to make room for a rapidly swelling erection.

Dean’s world is jostled as Cas adjusts, fabric shaking and balls bouncing and suddenly the excess space is disappearing. Castiel’s cock curls upward and triples in size, so much larger than him it’s almost hard to comprehend. He lays at the base of it, in an inch of space- less- beneath the monolith, and stares up in frustration. He can’t do anything from down here, and hell if he wants to be crushed into something as hard as that any time soon. There’s only one thing for it- he grunts, shoves himself between suddenly hot skin and soft fabric, and begins to shimmy up the length.

The pressure is intense, and it takes him what feels like a million years to make any progress at all. Slowly but surely, though, he climbs up the underside of Castiel’s cock, squirming and shoving in a way that evidently pleases his highness, because he’s full-mast and throbbing by the time Dean even makes it to the vein. “THERE!” Comes the desperate, insistent demand. “Work there.”

Dean’s not gay, but he knows his own dick. He knows there’s a sensitive place just beneath the head that- god- fuck, it’s the sweetest spot on the planet, and his money’s on having found Cas’s. He works at the flesh, pressing and rubbing the jutting vein. In the real world, Cas has to excuse himself from a crowded street and duck away into the privacy of an alley. He presses his palms flat onto the brick, and lets out a low moan. His cock throbs in pleasure, increasing the pressure on Dean who is squashed mercilessly into unforgiving fabric. Soon, he’s not working to jack the angel off anymore, he’s working to breathe, to get some kind of relief from the constant thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud, the pulsing of a man high-strung and desperate to cum.

“Dean- harder. Dean- better-“ 

He can’t. He’s small, there’s only so much he can do. A bead of precum rolls down from the engorged tip of Castiel’s shaft, slips and slides along his chest into something slick and slippery, and Castiel grows frustrated and impatient. 

Suddenly, Dean isn’t alone in his space. Invading it, allowing light to spill in from above, Castiel’s hand charges in. Fingers wrap around both Dean and Castiel’s throbbing dick, and begin to rub. He’s pressed, shoved, rubbed roughly into Castiel’s sweet spot, the flesh of his cock sliding roughly up and down his chest in a pulsing rhythm. The grip is too hard, it should break bones, it should break him, but it doesn’t. It seems to last forever, the enormous thing sliding up and down his entire body as Cas’s hands work him into a fast and jerking rhythm. 

Above him, Cas groans something deafening.

Dean can feel it the moment Cas reaches orgasm- it’s a solid, hot, rolling pressure that starts from the base of Cas’s dick, rounds up Dean's feet, up his legs, up his chest, past his face, and spills out of him in the form of semen spurting onto brick. Again and again it happens, hand crushing him into dick, dick crushing him into hand, rubbed right there to drag it all out while Cas groans throaty noises of pleasure.

Finally, the rhythm slows. Finally, the pressure stops. Finally, Cas softens above him, and his fingers lose some of that death grip. For a long moment, he lays there against Cas’s fingers, his hot and used cock heavy and unmoving on top of him while Cas’ catches his breath. 

Then, without a word, without a thought, without a look, Cas tucks both him and his dick back into the fabric of his boxers and begins to walk again. Dean lay used and spent against sagging skin. Godstiel returns to his day with a renewed sense of accomplishment.


End file.
